Max - 2008

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We made it.

I can hardly believe it, but we’re here. This is for us—for me and Kate. We made it, we made it, we made it, and it’s better than anything I could’ve pictured.

The aisle’s decked with white peonies and chrysanthemums: Kate’s favorites. Sunshine streams through the open doors. Outside, the car’s waiting, festooned in tin cans and bunting. Waiting to spirit us away. I’m taking her to Coney Island, our first day in the city. We’ll eat hot dogs and cotton candy. Ride the Wonder Wheel. Act like teenagers for the first time in a year.

Devon elbows me in the ribs as the wedding march strikes up. I stand tall and square my shoulders. That’s his little sister spreading rose petals, three years old and puffed up with pride. Cutest thing I’ve seen all day.

In my dreams, this is the part where the white petals turn red. Where the aisle stretches for miles, and Kate walks it barefoot, pricking her heels on a carpet of thorns. Where I reach for her forever, and our hands never touch.

A collective ahh goes up as every head turns at once. There she is, resplendent in her gown. I hold my breath as her father takes her arm. Her tiara catches the sun. She’s shining all over: white as a swan, with glittering crystals in her hair. Pearls litter her bodice, and even her bouquet sparkles with dew. As if she picked it herself from the church garden. She’s perfect.

One day, I’ll deserve her. Even if it takes the rest of my life.

The music swells. I fidget in my itchy suit. I need to see her face. To look into those serene brown eyes and see my future. To touch the spray of freckles across her cheeks and recall the first day we met. And her smile....

Kate falters. She stumbles, takes one more unsteady step, and stops in the spill of colored light from a stained-glass window. Her father turns to her, questioning. Someone murmurs in the back. A noisy ssh disturbs the tranquility of the morning. I feel it like an electric shock, all the way to my toes. My palms turn clammy as the moment stretches on. She can’t; she can’t—

Splashes of red and green and gold shiver on her arms, and I realize she’s trembling. A breathless lull settles over the congregation. No one whispers. No one fidgets. No one moves but Kate. She takes half a step back. Her heel scrapes on the floor. Her skirts rustle, loud in the silence. Even the minute clack of beads against her tiara echoes through the nave.

Somebody coughs.

Kate adjusts her grip on her bouquet, sets her jaw, and carries on. I let my hand drop to my side. I was reaching for her. Like in my dreams. A choked sound escapes me, and Dev takes my elbow: it’s all good.

All good.

Kate takes another step, and another. She’s looking down, dark lashes heavy on her cheeks. Her father hands her up to the altar, and this is it. Our moment. My heart swells as the organ fades out.

We made it. I mouth the words at her, but she’s looking at her feet.

“Kate?”

A cloud passes over the sun. Kate tilts her head to look. Something glistens under her veil: not a jewel, but a tear, caught on her lashes. It streaks down her cheek and falls on her breast, leaving a faint, ashen trace of mascara.

“What—?”

Her face is ghostly through the veil. Still, I can see it as she turns my way, the evidence of a sleepless night. Hollow eyes. Harsh smears of blush on milk-pale cheeks. And she’s not smiling. She looks haunted—and it’s my eyes she’s avoiding, my hand she’s backing away from. Even in my worst nightmares, this never happened.

Kate looks at her father. At the priest. At the doors, still open to the street. Not at me. Not once at me.

Please....

Her shoulders slump. She closes her eyes. Her fingers loosen, and her bouquet hits the floor.

“Kate!”

She picks up her skirts and runs. I grab for her, but it’s like harnessing smoke. I come away with a scrap of veil, no bigger than my fist—and she’s flying up the aisle, only pausing to snatch off her shoes. Her torn veil streams behind her. Her bare feet slap the flagstones. The sun blazes forth, glaring in my eyes. Kate careens into the light. For a moment, she hovers in the arch, shoes dangling from one finger, and then she’s gone.

Gone.

I drop to my knees. There’s a hand on my shoulder: Dev’s, or maybe her dad’s. But all I can see is her bouquet, scattered on the floor. Peonies and chrysanthemums, crushed underfoot. A drift of petals at the foot of the altar. Tiny glass beads—not dewdrops, after all. I reach for a chrysanthemum, a peony, a spray of baby’s breath.

“Max?”

“Not now.” There’s the ribbon: white velvet, edged with lace. I can put this back together. All of it. Just like new.

“I’ll go after her.”

I nod. That’s right. Her dad’ll bring her back. She’s nervous, that’s all. Freaked out, like before graduation. But she made that speech, and she’ll make her vows. Kate’s never let me down.

“Son....”

I jerk away. Dad’s reaching for Kate’s bouquet. Trying to take it. People are starting to mutter. Shuffling around. A few of them are on their feet. I want to scream at them—sit back down! Everything needs to stay in place. Kate’s coming back. She is. She’s on her way right now, sheepish and red-faced. I’ll rib her hard, later. And then I’ll hold her close, so she knows she’s forgiven.

Somebody laughs: a little kid. And there’s that ssh, again.

Dev kneels beside me. He hands me a stray chrysanthemum. “Need some help with that?”

I shake my head, rearranging a couple of blooms to hide the crushed ones. Good as new: the flowers, the ribbon, the trailing strands of pearls....

“Perfect.” I hold up the arrangement. Dev straightens the ribbon.

“We should, uh....” He trails off.

“What?”

Dad takes over. “He’s right, son. Let’s go outside. Get some air.”

I don’t need air. I need Kate. Any minute now, any second, she’ll walk in...and how am I supposed to see her, with a forest of legs crowding around me? How can I get to her, with all these hands on my shoulders, pressing me down? “Get off me!”

A toddler starts to wail, and the floodgates open. Everyone’s milling around, talking over each other. A knot of rubberneckers is forming by the door, spilling out into the street. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

“Shit!—she’s taking the car!”

“No way!”

“It’s like I said: eighteen’s way too young.”

It can’t be true. “She’s coming back. Last night, she said....” No one’s listening. I slump against the altar.

This is another nightmare. Any second, my alarm’ll go off. Mom’ll be hanging over my bed, camera in hand, ready to capture my wedding-day bedhead. My suit’s still hanging on the door; my boutonniere’s in the freezer. And Kate—she’s been up since five, getting her hair done. Because the practice run took four hours, and she can’t be late for our big day.

That’s not the growl of an engine. That rattling, that’s not tin cans on tarmac. That distant screech of tires, that’s just—that’s just....

“She’ll be back.”

“Oh, Max.” Mom sits down beside me. I turn my head away. Her pity’s killing me. And Kate’s coming back.

Last night, we packed for the Big Apple. She couldn’t get her suitcase to close. It took me and Dev both parking our asses on it before she could work the buckles. And the second I got up, the left one tore off. We ended up lashing it shut with jump ropes. Tomorrow we’re going to Coney Island.

“Max?”

“Leave him alone. If he wants to wait—”

I want to go home. To our new apartment, with the tiny window, where we can just see Manhattan over the East River. That’s where we’re going to sit, at the end of the day, planning our rise to fame and fortune.

The crowd thins and the shadows get long. The priest comes and goes, and comes again. Someone offers me water. Candied almonds. A scratchy, dust-smelling blanket. I clutch my scrap of veil. It’s soft along the edge, where the netting gives way to lace. Handmade lace: Kate loved that. Handmade, with tiny, faceted beads woven into it. Her dress, too: someone slaved over that. Tucked and trimmed and stitched their way through four fittings. Matched the flowers across the bodice to the ones on her grandmother’s dress. That was her “something borrowed,” that design.

She wouldn’t walk out on that. She couldn’t.

They close the doors when it starts to get dark. I want to protest: How’s Kate supposed to get in? How will she know I’m still here?—that I never gave up?

Mom’s tucked into the end of a pew, reading a murder mystery. Dad’s off in back, keeping the priest company. Dev’s sitting vigil with me, one arm draped over my shoulder. He knows. He was there last night. Saw how excited she was.

I jolt out of a foggy half-doze at the sound of Dad’s phone. He’s standing over me. Wearing his bad-news face. He listens, nods, and nods some more, like whoever’s on the other end can see him.

I let my head droop. I don’t want to know.

Dad clears his throat. “Max.”

No.

“Your car’s at the airport. She got on a plane a few hours ago.”

A plane? “That’s not.... New York’s only three hours away.”

“To London.” He shifts his weight. I don’t have to look up to know he hates telling me this. “She, uh...there’s a note. Lorraine’s going to bring it by in the morning. We should....”

Go. I know.

“Father Sewell wants to close up.”

I crush the strip of lace in my fist. The beads dig into my palm. She betrayed me. Kate betrayed me.

I’ll never forgive her.